


lechery

by jewicidal



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1980s, Biblical References, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Murderotica, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Other, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sex Demon, Sexual Violence, Tragic Romance, Trans Male Character, Underage Drug Use, Underage Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 00:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewicidal/pseuds/jewicidal
Summary: “If you are my food, how am I supposed to feel pity towards you? That would mean starvation for me.”





	lechery

#### i

Destruction in its finest was beautiful. Destruction, chaos, and all things perceived unholy gave birth to beautiful things. Beautiful things always need an ugly beginning. Those ugly beginnings may be perceived as something of the utmost beautiful because they made those beautiful things.

However, every _ugly thing_ needs a beginning.

We often forget about those ugly things in the light of that beautiful beginning.

Usually, the beginning isn’t special. But it catches the attention of Tragedy. Tragedy always makes the most beautiful things. But they also make the ugliest things.

Tragedy has a choice. _Do you wish to become something beautiful or ugly?_ The choice is rather simple. Though, there is the off-chance Tragedy will mark its own path. Tragedy is intelligent, Tragedy is clever.

 _We’ll see._ Tragedy replies.

And so we do see. We do see how clever Tragedy is. We do see those beautiful things are equally ugly.

Ugliness and beauty go hand in hand; like life and death.

#### ii

There was a boy. A boy who was too feminine to be a boy, he was told. A boy born from Tragedy’s twisted, acidic womb. A boy who died at the hands of a man who helped birth Tragedy’s creations. That boy died at the hands of his kin. Died with those hands of his father wrapped around his skinny, little, ten-year-old throat as he was used. Used so much he bled cochineal tears from pale, fragile skin. He died with purple, yellow, and maroon marks upon him, as if he was modern art.

He died feeling empty. Feeling hungry.

He died with the taste of sweetness on his tongue, running thickly down his throat and painting his lips like a dark red gloss.

_Beautiful._

#### iii

So clever Tragedy was.

Tragedy was beautiful in its own right, in a sense. An ugly beginning gave birth to something truly beautiful.

#### iv

Romans 8

_Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you free from the law of sin and death. For what the law was powerless to do because it was weakened by the flesh God did by sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh to be a sin offering. And so he condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fully met in us, who do not live according to the flesh but according to the Spirit._

#### v

Morgan had a routine. Morgan had control. Morgan _needed_ control.

It was what Morgan could control that made him feel at peace. The poor boy was always on edge, ever since his father died he hadn’t been the same. He became morose, cold, and off-putting. It was a damn shame. He was certainly a pretty young thing. 

He wasn’t anything particularly special though. 

Morgan was quiet, kept to himself, only seventeen, and attended a quaint little high school while caring for his ill grandmother.

He was rather simple all on his own. He liked hot tea, earl gray, three teaspoons of sugar. He liked writing, though his works were kept _very_ private. He wasn’t born a boy, but it didn’t stop him from being one.

He also liked men. Older men. Usually married and bored with the constant woman in their lives. 

You could say it wasn’t a guilty pleasure.

#### vi

Saccharine and cloying, red, darkened scarlet almost maroon as it coagulated in the shot glass.

Golden and gleaming, orbs staring at it in fondness

A small yet beautiful smile lay upon the plush and soft pink lips, as the boy’s head lay upon delicate and pale hands.

A hand lifted from beneath his tilted head, a long and gentle finger dipping gracefully into the thick, goopy blood.

His head lifts as well as he stares intently, the smile on his face as saccharine as the ichor covering his digit.

Said digit dipping now into his awaiting mouth, tongue sucking it and taste buds relishing it. A soft and whispering moan being released. Golden and gleaming eyes closing in bliss.

#### vii

The rhythmic squeaking of old bed springs rang throughout what would have been an otherwise quiet and darkened room if it were not for the accompanying moans of two people enthralled in libidinous passion.

The squelching and slapping of sexes meeting together would be heard the closer you got to the joining of the two people.

A pale head tilting back in euphoria as they bounced gracefully on the member of a man beneath.

Golden and gleaming eyes opening wide, scleras black and irises glowing dimly in the gloom. Plush and soft, pink lips opening in a moan then widely, bearing sharp white ivories.

Clenching around the member in a vice grip as the man cums, the head dips forward. And with the soft melodious clicking of something inhuman, fangs rip into the vulnerable throat.

The crimson stain of blood smearing onto the pale face as they feed upon the man's jugular, satiating an eternal hunger for only the night. Blackened claws gripping the other’s shoulders tightly, the sharp points leaving pricks of blood in its wake.

The golden, glowing eyes looking up for only a moment, the eyes lidded, the gaze holding a hazy bliss, the ambrosial, sanguine fluid dribbling in thick drips.

A grin stretched onto the blood soaked lips, reddened fangs bearing in pride and joy.

#### viii

A cigarette dangled limply from blushed lips as dainty fingers gently strummed the straps wrapped tightly on porcelain skin.

The sanguine lace clinging to his hips and chest delicately, a mockery of beauty in the most devilish way.

Golden eyes gazing enraptured in the mirror, the crackling crooning of a record playing Mambo Sun in the background. His pale fingers grabbing the cigarette and smoke billowed out.

Another night to satiate his voracity. Blushed lips smiled, teeth bearing.

Beauty can be dangerous.

#### ix

John 6:53-4 

_Jesus said to them, "I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day.”_

#### x

Being dead sucked.

Being undead sucked _harder_.

Especially when you’re supposedly unbeating and unfeeling heart beated for some pothead who sat at your table at lunch and said how “lonely” you looked.

“Well, isn’t God lonely?” You reply, using this question to get the stoner off your dick.

“Well, doesn’t he have Angels by his side?” The too-nice guy replied with a too-nice smile.

You huff and return back to Cujo, ignoring him for the rest of the period.

#### xi

“Your eyes are pretty.”

“You want your cock sucked or something?”

“Can’t I compliment you?”

#### xii

It started with lingering touches and gazes. It started with soft smiles across classrooms. It started with study sessions in the library. It started with chain smoking weed in an old 1978 Chevy Van.

It started with human emotions.

And Morgan banished it with the loveless, rough sex as he fed on the dusky grayish pink intestines of a man who called himself Daniel. How ironic.

_God is my judge._

#### xiii

The low, yet sing-song clicking of a creature drifted throughout the hotel’s empty hall. The siren call beckoning to weary sailors.

Tragedy whispering in his head and Tragedy whispering in his body, the fire and brimstone of his insides burning alight with inhuman arousal.

Arousal not of sex, but of _prey_.

#### xiv

His sharp, charcoal coloured claws dug into the chest cavity of the dead man. Blood gushed around the blackened, spindly fingers and his luminous gilded eyes stared, unblinking as he watched the deflated lungs be squeezed.

His brow slightly furrowed as his talons grasped something else.

A heart. Unbeating like his.

He smiled, almost kindly, as if mocking the deceased male. 

The claws clutched it gently before with flourish and a snap, he twisted it from the connected arteries.

He slowly brought the vascular organ up to his face, the warm blood of it slowly weeping down his grotesquely shaped arm. He stood languidly and peered at the life source with what someone might deem as curiosity.

This reddened organ once pumped blood throughout an entire body and yet, why did his not?

His blood was blackened and tainted, charred and lifeless. The same scarlet nectar once ran through him; and yet he found no reconciliation when it did.

And with the poise of a king, his sharpened teeth clamped down onto the organ, the wine spreading onto his pallid face, dripping in steady streams. The sustenance flowing down his throat.

Do unto others what has been done to you.

#### xv

The boy beneath him sighs in ecstasy as Morgan grinds down slowly. He softly pants and reaches his fingers to his clit, rubbing it leisurely in a hazy bliss of pleasure.

His head lowers to the other’s face and they kiss sloppily, their spit connecting in a tangle. The other boy grasps his hips and bounces him gently. Morgan gasps at the movement and wraps his arms around the boy’s neck.

As the two danced in lust and desire, Morgan’s own arousal peaked and as he cummed, his head reached past the other’s head and bit into his own arm. The dark ichor bubbling up around his mouth and dribbling down the slope of his skin; staving off the hunger in his veins.

#### xvi

Luke 11:24

 _When the unclean spirit has gone out of a person, it passes through waterless places seeking rest, and finding none it says, ‘I will return to my house from which I came.’_

#### xvii

He retches into the porcelain bowl, black tar rising from his throat. He lifts his head and it drips thickly from his chin into the toilet. He breathes heavily due to the exertion

He’s hungry.

#### xviii

Gay clubs weren’t usually his scene but he had been craving younger blood. 

He ground his ass against what he assumed was a closeted frat boy and his ears thrummed at the beat of the gaudy pop song.

How wretched.

#### xix

Gold eyes stared into the unmoving water, that was stained in the red that once smothered his fragile skin. His knees drew up to his chest and he squeezed them tightly.

He remembers speaking to his creator as if it were yesterday.

_”And what exactly do you wish for?”_

_”Rebirth.”_

Morgan’s brows furrowed and he sneered. He got what he wished for.

#### xx

Morgan’s skin prickled as he entered his grandmother’s bedroom, the tea set on the tray in his hands clinked slightly.

A large cross adorned the wall above her bed, a smaller one gracing her wrinkled throat.

He almost scoffed.

“Morgan, sweetie, is that you?” Her voice was rasped with age and illness but she still made sure it dripped with old-fashioned, honey-dipped kindness.

He hummed in a reply and she smiled. “My lovely granddaughter,” she said softly, reminiscing.

Morgan frowned but knew it was better if she stayed in the dark.

“I brought tea, Nana.” “Oh! Thank you so much, I missed tea time with you!”

#### xxi

“Fuck God.”

“What did the Man upstairs do to you?”

#### xxii

It’s running thickly down the slope of this neck across his jugular, cochineal standing out from the pallor. His reddened fangs baring in aggression, vibrant orbs wide.

The long, onyx arrow tail flicked to and fro in the dim light of the pale moon.

Whole and round the celestial body is; the Virgin Mary upon the wall mocking. 

The only sound in the night is the inhuman clicking of something beautifully unholy.

#### xxiii

“Beauty is objective,” he says in a bored tone, staring out the window, his chin resting in his palm and a blunt placed delicately between his index and middle finger. The sky is dull, gray. Reflecting the mood.

The sound of pencil on paper falls in place with the mellow groove of the record player and subdued dripping of rain.

“Sounds just like you to say that Morg,” his lover says with an amused smile as he scratches at the paper gently with his pencil.

#### xxiv

His digits dip into the blood stained water of the bathtub, head tilted against his arm, which lay on the rim of the porcelain.

The lifeless, dead gaze of a young married man stares back at him. Morgan frowns.

“Don’t give me that look honey, it doesn’t suit you,” he whispers speaking to the deceased male in the bath.

#### xxv

Psalm 100:3

_Know that the Lord, he is God! It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture._

#### xxvi

The bleak maroon locker is slammed and the boy looks nonchalantly at the perpetrator.

The star quarterback is known as Andrew Bishop. The first Apostle of Jesus.

The brunette boy smirks and if it wasn’t such a poison smile it would have been handsome.

Morgan smiles back, however, both of their malicious intentions clear.

#### xxvii

The Ford Thunderbird rocks gently in the dark, empty, and abandoned parking lot.

Inside, clothes lay strewn across the seats and dashboard, the soft moans of coitus echoed in the small vehicle; the groans of exertion given by the boy above as he thrusts into the welcoming heat below.

Morgan grips the other’s shoulders and whines desperately, Andrew grinning at the sexual noise. His eyes shut tightly and his pale legs shake, wrapped around the muscled midsection of the eighteen-year-old.

It would be a shame, he thinks, such a nice cock and such a handsome face.

The boy opens his eyes, scleras black, irises glimmering, and pupils mere slits. Staring at Andrew.

The other high schooler slows down and looks back, confusion morphing into fear.

Morgan grins, feral fangs dripping with salivation in hunger.

#### xxviii

“Missing,” the news says. The boy smirks.

#### xxix

His lover peers at the calendar with an arched dirty blonde brow. “Hey sweetheart, when’s your birthday?”

“Why should it matter.” The tone is laced with slight venom.

“Because I deserve to celebrate it with my boyfriend,” he replies with a sad and concerned smile.

The ash blonde boy had forgotten it was June third. It’s October fifth now.

#### xxx

Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruction. Destruc-

#### xxxi

Sangria coloured lifeblood drips steadily from gnarled claws as he stares back at his lover, who stood in the shade of the van he called a home. The night was illuminated by a half moon.

His lover looks in pity, not in horror.

“I still love you,” he says in a hushed voice, his hand outstretching towards the creature that he loved so dearly.

Morgan’s mouth opens at the hand towards him. His breath is shaky.

His reddened, charred palm touches the human hand as he is gently guided into the home.

#### xxxii

God condemns good souls. Beautifully ugly souls.

His lover was simply beautiful. He was tainting an Angel.

And said Angel was fucking him so thoroughly he was sobbing.

#### xxxiii

Psalm 143:8

_Let me hear Your lovingkindness in the morning; For I trust in You; Teach me the way in which I should walk; For to You I lift up my soul._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm am a GARBAGE human being and PROUD


End file.
